


Brothers in Arms

by Kahvi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-02 23:55:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a part of Sherlock which, despite all else that he is, remains virginal and innocent, and therein lies the appeal. Mycroft cannot have it, so neither will anyone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brothers in Arms

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** _Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes/Mycroft Holmes, no one else could possibly understand._

Sherlock remembers no outrage, no barely concealed resentment and shame, not even any second hand embarrassment, the first time Mycroft brought home a boy. And really, why would there be; the Holmes household was one of utter pragmatism, and it had seen far worse than a nineteen year old redhead awkwardly presenting himself as 'Ernest' and getting the salad and dessert fork mixed up. These things happened. Mycroft himself was eighteen going on fifty, already fitting (still growing, at this point, added pounds still being made up for by added inches) into Father's bespoke suits, which, it turned out, Mummy had not burned after all. To Sherlock's eight year old mind, seasoned by that unique environment, the most singular thing about the entire debacle was the fact that his brother clearly didn't care for Earnest at all. Why go to all the bother of this little piece of domestic theater if there was nothing to be gained from it? He remembers this, 26 years later; remembers Mycroft's eyes across the table, while Ernest was tripping over his own tongue in trying to explain why he did not get into Cambridge, and of course it's all so obvious, now.

Obvious and rather funny, when you think about it.

* * *

"You're off in a brown study today," Mycroft remarks, reading the paper much in the same way one would read a book of fabric samples.

 _Yes,_ Sherlock resists replying, _yours_. The only colors in Mycroft's home are ones you'd find on the floor of a forest at some point in early October. He could smoke, but then he would be publicly demonstrating to Mycroft that he still was. (He _knew_ , of course, but that was another matter entirely.)

"You never went to see about that flat in Baker Street."

"You don't want me to take the Baker Street flat."

"What nonsense. Do you think I enjoy having you here?"

"I can't afford it."

"Only because you refuse to rely on family funds." Mycroft sighs, as though his words hadn't already done so for him. "Really, Sherlock. We all have to grow up some time."

"You never did."

Mycroft smiles, folding the paper. "No. I never had to."

* * *

There are a number of spare bedrooms in Mycroft's considerable flat. Men stay in them, from time to time, moving through the place like well-hung (shadows, the odd flash in a mirror) ghosts. Sherlock has counted three in as many weeks. One particularly memorable evening, two were here at once. None are here now. It is rather quiet. Sherlock likes it that way.

They have not discussed the flat situation for very nearly two days. There is no hope that the matter has been forgotten, naturally, but there is the equivalent of an amicable truce; a rest before the arms race begins again, in earnest. Mycroft arrives for dinner at 7.30 exactly, so Sherlock is _exactly_ four minutes late.

They both smile. It's all about the little things.

"It's beginning to get a little tedious, you know," Mycroft remarks while pouring white wine sauce onto poached salmon. White on pink. Nearly pornographic.

"No thank you," Sherlock says, when his plate arrives. Mycroft chides him silently.

"You must eat."

"I do eat."

"Something other than toffee and the odd spoonful of scrambled eggs."

"Yes, _mother_."

"Oh, _please_." There is no malice in his voice; there never is. There is only the two of them. For a little while longer. Surely that's not too much to ask? "I'm staying in this evening," Mycroft mentions, idly, proving that it isn't.

* * *

Harrow, that was the first time. Sherlock was thirteen, lonely and absolutely terrified. The people were interesting, and he hardly cared what they _thought_ about him (painfully obvious, all of it), but there was absolutely nothing familiar anywhere. This was not his bed; not his room. Not _his_ in any sense of the word; there was another boy, Something-or-other Barnes, and Sherlock was expected to share this with him; all of it, sallow curtains, moderately worn carpet, made-to-look-expensive writing desk and all. _All_. At least there were separate beds. It didn't help, much. Where would he sleep, where would he retreat and cut himself off and just _breathe_ , knowing there was always, always someone else?

It would end in tears, but how could it, knowing Barnes could come in at any moment, mocking any House Master-insisted notion of privacy? Bereft even of that, Sherlock sat in bed, the one thing that was irrevocably his, and tried very hard to do nothing other than that.

Just sit. Breathe. When Mycroft came, he was very nearly hyperventilating.

They didn't speak; they rarely did in those years, when Sherlock's usual irritation at the world was amplified (so he saw, now) by hormones and changes to his body he could not control. They had never needed to speak, but it passed the time, didn't it? This time, however, Mycroft merely sat with him, his body large enough to keep anything else away.

They never spoke, nor did they speak about it since, but Barnes never returned. It was all right, after that. Nothing _happened_. What could?

Really, what could? Sherlock lay awake that night, and the next, wondering.

* * *

"You're nothing but skin and bones."

"You always say that."

"I do, don't I?"

The room is pleasantly cold (brown, here too; tones of chestnut and bark and mahogany), so heavily curtained it might as well be windowless.

"Do go to bed."

"You mean come to bed."

"You know what I mean."

Sherlock does.

The sheets are taupe.

* * *

"What if I found you someone?"

Sherlock turns, sharply. It is 8.30 in the morning, and Mycroft is not supposed to be here still, which, presumably, is why he is. Sherlock dumps his half-eaten toast, perfectly golden brown and slick with honey, back down on the heirloom china. "What if you _what?_ "

"A flatmate."

It is not what his eyes say, not what the lilt of his mouth implies. Sherlock ignores it all. "Why would I want that?"

"So you can afford the Baker Street flat."

"I can afford the Baker Street flat without one."

"Not without help."

Skin pulls tight around his neck when Sherlock's jaw sets. He wants to ask why Mycroft is _doing_ this, what he could possibly have to prove or gain, but he already knows the answer. Mycroft is _bored_. There is no longer any challenge. After all, Sherlock comes, willingly.

"I simply can't have you staying here any longer. You’ve been clean for months, you’ve more than fully recovered and the Sultan of Oman will be arriving next Thursday. Now what, exactly, would you have me tell him," there is a slight pause, brows raised, lips moving in tandem with eyes, "brother _dear?_ "

Honey sticks to his fingers. Sherlock sticks the tip of one slender digit into his mouth, knowing that will be the end of it. He smiles as he hears Mycroft's softly subdued rage, sodding off elegantly.

* * *

During Sherlock's second year at University, Mycroft tried some experimental and no doubt prohibitively expensive treatment, and lost 4 stone in a fortnight. He strode into the library one day (Tuesday afternoon, October 6th), preening like a prize cock among the chickens. There were no circumstances under which Sherlock could ever not recognize him, of course, thus preventing any dramatic double takes or vulgar expressions of surprise, but there was the distinct feeling, even now, in remembering the event, of being anchored to his seat.

Mycroft would never sit on anyone's desk, but he stood in front of Sherlock, running a hand down his new, tailored waistcoat, and gave the distinct impression that he _could_ , should the urge overcome him. "That boy," he said, barely nodding towards the biochemistry section, "you fancy him."  
"Don't be ridiculous."

"Dear me, is it _that_ bad?"

Sherlock ran his fingertips over the heavy textbook pages, craving his mid-afternoon cigarette. He could not care less about the gaunt, absurd creature currently thumbing through an inferior copy of _Basic Endocrinology_ (to which Sherlock always amended 'For Idiots'), glasses nearly falling off his narrow nose, but protesting further would only make things worse.

"I think I shall take him home tonight."

"He lives off-campus; he's never here in the evenings." Sherlock would bite his hand if that wouldn't make the slip even more obvious.

Mycroft merely smiles. "Well then. No time like the present, is there?"

Of course they leave together. Mycroft sent him an e-mail the next morning. Sherlock deleted it.

* * *

Of course he ends up taking the flat. They had both known he would, from the beginning; the dance was just to determine where and when (and for fun, of course, what _fun_ ). Mrs. Hudson dotes over him, but the price is all she can afford and non-negotiable (not that he asks; he doesn't have to).

He can't afford it. He won't tell Mycroft.

Three weeks, he tells her. He'll have to come up with something by then. Meanwhile, he keeps his things in her attic ('no trouble at all, dear') and spends as much time as he can get away with at St. Barts, and cleaning up in public baths. He still has some money, but not enough for a cheap hotel every night, so he rations it out; three sleepless nights to one full day of sleep seems to work fairly well.

Three weeks. His website is up and running again; there will be cases, soon.

Three weeks. It's doable.

* * *

"Would you like to try it?" The question had come nonchalantly, quietly a-propos. Mycroft was smoking by the window, not out of consideration for the occupants in the room - there were only the two of them; when was it not - but to keep a calm eye on the courtyard, where young boys slowly turning into young men were scurrying about with various degrees of purpose. There was no smoking on school grounds, naturally, and smoking _inside_ was such an unthinkable crime that even Sherlock, with his healthy disregard for authority, was nervously checking the door now and then, as if the smell could waft across corridors and through thick walls and rooms to alert Matron. No one would know, of course, no one ever did.

"Why should I? It's disgusting."

"You mean it's unhealthy. Do be precise."

"It smells bad and it makes your breath stink."

Mycroft's face, still inclined towards the busy spring afternoon, turned softer in the weakening light. "How would you know?"

Sherlock felt the warm flush of blood to his cheeks. "Smoking is ridiculous. It tastes foul, and it gives you cancer."

"If you're quite done, perhaps you could answer the question properly?"

"I did answer." The smell was not unpleasant. Mummy smoked, in the upstairs bathroom ever night, after dinner. It was a carefully kept secret everyone knew.

"You did no such thing. You gave me a list of arguments, all of which you have clearly learned by rote by way of some no doubt well-meaning teachers. Have you forgotten everything I've told you about thinking for yourself?"

Sherlock hesitated. Smoking was not, nor had it been for as long as Sherlock could remember, in any way 'cool'. Most boys tried it, at some point or another, but those few who actually smoked were considered weird and freakish; all in all not qualities which Sherlock felt particularly lacking in himself. He stood for a moment, watching Mycroft inhale and exhale through his nose, plumes of grey smoke spiraling off unseen by those below. "You're only smoking so you'll eat less."

"One of many reasons." Mycroft turned, finally, reaching out, the tip of his half-smoked cigarette nearly nudging Sherlock's nose. "Go on."

Sherlock took it. He had expected the burn, the acrid, ashen taste on his tongue, but not the overpowering _heat_ , nor the fact that it did not taste anything like what it smelled. Then again, that was so often the way of things.

* * *

There is a new girl working at the mortuary, or perhaps she's simply not been important enough for him to notice. People are like that; fading into the background until needed, he and Mycroft moving among them; through them, like smoke. _Hooper, Molly_ her nametag says. She is clearly infatuated with him. How tedious.

"You're working with the police, then?" Her hair is dull and mousey, like Mycroft's old towels.

"Sometimes. Could I borrow that scalpel, please?"

"Erm, I'm not supposed to..."

He gives her a smile, tries to, and the oddest thing happens to her face. It seems to break apart into fragments, falling about the room like the muffled, giggling sound she makes. _So easy_.

Sherlock sees all of her, in that moment. Sees where to push and pull and _tug_ ; it wouldn't take much, and he could follow her home. Sleep in her bed, for a price, of course, but wouldn't it be worth it just for the look on Mycroft's face? He takes the scalpel from her outstretched hand. Fingers steady, stained with chemicals and worn-off pink nail polish.

"Thank you."

* * *

" _Molly Hooper._ Pathologist. _Really_ , Sherlock? She's like frightened kitten in human form."

"Why are you phoning me?"

"Why did you pick up?"

"It's no business of yours who I chose to _fuck_."

The word echoes in the rain-heavy streets. There is no reply. Little drops of water escape his umbrella, hitting nose, then chin. Then, Mycroft _chuckles_. He does not hang up. Sherlock can hear his calm, even breathing. Anticipating. The phone makes a satisfactory crunching sound when it hits the lamp post.

The next morning, a new one arrives by post. To St. Barts.

* * *

He runs out of money on day nineteen.

It takes quite a while before the door is answered, but it is Mycroft who does so (who else), taking all of Sherlock in with a single glance that is totally unnecessary. "Well," he says, opening wide, invitingly, "you must be famished."

It is not _quite_ like stepping into the lion's den; you notice when lions devour you.

* * *

"I've got the money," Sherlock slurps between mouthfuls, trying not to look across the table. Some type of lentil soup, with a hint of coriander. Indian dignitaries on the way? (Already here?)

" _Yes_ , arriving by courier tomorrow, if you're lucky, and then you have merely - shall we say - a fortnight's time in which to wait for the bank to bother to process the international check with which your client has seen fit to pay you." Mycroft leans back, crosses one leg languidly over the other. "Really, this is getting rather tiresome. "

The spoon flops noisily into the empty bowl, whisked away instantly. Sherlock stares through the window, where the lack of streetlights and a hedge the size of two grown men prevent anyone looking in, or in this case, out. He had been so _close_. The check, once cleared, will pay for more than three month's worth of rent, and a fresh set of clothes to keep him in the style to which Mycroft has him accustomed. The soup did not agree with him. He feels vaguely ill.

"Why didn't you ask for money for expenses _ahead_ of time? A return trip to Boston, a detour to Belgium and several dignitaries to wine and dine; do you have any money left at _all?_ Well, no." The edges of his mouth crept upwards just a fraction more, showing the bottom of his well-kept canines. "We know the answer to that already, don't we? You wouldn't be here if you hadn't been such an utter _idiot._ "

He does not raise his voice, but the word sticks, making Sherlock's ears ring. Mycroft rises, crossing the room on near-silent feet (custom-made patent leather), crowding Sherlock as he leans over him; dark blue eyes and the faint scent of cinnamon between them.  
"And now you've come crawling back, haven't you?"

Sherlock _has_ to speak. _Has_ to. His lips part. A syllable. Two. "Molly-"

Lips. Brutal and rough, scraping across Sherlock's own, teeth nipping; weak little noises at the edge of hearing, then a gasp; withdrawal. Labored breathing. _Rage._ " _No one_ ," Mycroft whispers, wiping his mouth. More wants to come up; Sherlock can feel it; see it in the way his eyes narrow, but instead, he flings a napkin dramatically.

It is something of an anticlimax.

* * *

Sherlock sleeps in the lounge as no one sees fit to throw him out, or rather he flops there restlessly, dreading the moment, come morning, when someone actually will. This place is like a tomb at night; Sherlock has always thought so, even as a child, if fifteen could be called a child, still. He remembers Mycroft calling him 'boy', so presumably he was one when they sat here for the first time, in chairs opposite one another, having a conversation in absolute silence. It was one of Mycroft's heftier years, and Sherlock remembers the fullness of his face and how it made him seem more at one with the chair and the drapery and the plush, full carpets.

Sherlock remembers remembering the phrase 'fat people are jolly' and trying not to laugh, though really, it isn't funny at all.

It had been late. Not as late as this, but getting there. The fireplace lit; all the usual things. "How's school?" Mycroft asked, as though that had been what was in the air.

"Boring."

And they had said nothing more until it was time for bed, and Mycroft had simply assumed Sherlock would follow; into his room, into that huge anachronism of a bed. Just to sleep; that was all they ever did.

Even now.

Well. Sort of. Sherlock lies awake, feeling Mycroft's uneven breathing in the walls.

* * *

Mike Stamford is a regular fixture of St. Barts, part of the blur of faces and bodies in the background (Molly will not fade back into them, despite his best efforts; nothing happened, they barely even speak, it makes no sense), and Sherlock knows it cannot be coincidental when he suddenly starts trying to strike up a conversation.

"I heard you were flat hunting."

"From whom?"

"Molly... erm... told me?" His earnest little face blinks. Not just his eyes; every feature squints in insatiable curiosity. Good grief.

"In any case, I'm not anymore."

"Ah." He stops; expecting more information? What for? Sherlock rolls his eyes, giving up the pretense of heading to the morgue; this tends to throw unwanted people off, for whatever reason. "Found somewhere then, have you?" He cannot let the silence linger. Simple people never can. “So what’s next; finding a flatmate?”

"Who would want me for a flatmate?" Not what he had _intended_ to say at all. Sleep deprivation finally getting to him, perhaps; it does, in the end, he does have a body, he's well aware. It's simply a matter of tolerance. Stamford, he realizes, is still standing next to him, as though they were in the middle of something.

"What do you mean, ‘who’d want-“

"You're neither deaf nor stupid; you clearly heard and understood me; why do people repeat obvious statements?"

Stamford laughs. His glasses shift a little to the left. They're the wrong prescription, Sherlock can tell; the thought is soothing. "That right there's why you can’t find a flatmate, Sherlock."

Obvious to the point of tedium. Sherlock turns abruptly and heads back to the break room to which he is not technically allowed access; there will be coffee. Almost as good as sleep. Better, sometimes.

* * *

John Watson slips into his life with Sherlock barely noticing. John Watson, the most ordinary man the world has ever seen, yet so striking, impossible to miss (much like he himself _cannot_ miss), moving through the world just a little like Sherlock, but _caring_.

That shouldn't be possible; he's an _impossible man_.

Sherlock makes him pay the rent in full for the first month, muttering something about 'deposits', but John doesn't even ask. It's still reasonable, but it's more than John can afford ( _shoes, shirts, grown out haircut; though that is more apathy than lack of funding_ ) and he simply does not ask. It is, of course, only a matter of time, and that time, as it happens, is 5:14 PM one Monday evening, with John off fetching the rest of his things from the drab little room in which he used to live. Mycroft doesn't knock, no surprise, but how he managed to get past Mrs. Hudson _is_.

"Well, isn't this cozy!"

Sherlock picks at a loose thread on his dressing gown, toes curling around the edge of the table. There's no need to reply, so he doesn't.

 _Get out_ , an unfamiliar voice urges, and he sits up, wondering where it came from. Not Mycroft, still frozen in the doorway, disingenuous patent grin and all.

"What is it you want me to say? 'Congratulations'? You'd like someone other than your new best friend to sing your praises, is that it?"

That gets Sherlock's attention. Mycroft's calm exterior is only ever that, but how rare it is to see it crack, so! There he stands, leaning on that ubiquitous umbrella just a little too hard, feet farther apart; stability more important that presentation, and nothing is _ever_ more important than presentation. This could get interesting.

" _Yes,_ I'm a little shaken, well done. Praises to you, brother dear. You must know how worried I am," the slightest hesitation; he notices the skull is gone, sees John's cane by the chair opposite Sherlock's, "for you."

"I'm fine."

"Sherlock, stop this. You've made your point; you can come home now."'

"I am home."

" _This is not your home_."

 _And what is_ , Sherlock wonders, brushing stray falling plaster from the table; the quiet debris of Mycroft's outburst - the staid, starched rooms in which a parade of increasingly clumsier young men would try to justify themselves to Mother during dinner? (None of them good enough; not quite.) Mycroft's solemn, earth-toned cave? "John will be back, soon."

It is rare to meet Mycroft's eyes fully; attractive marbles that they are, purely ornamental save for moments such as these. Sherlock knows he will not be forgiven, and that makes it all right.

The taps of umbrella tips down the stairs keep a steady rhythm, in time with the boiling kettle and the absent breathing of the man who will return, much later.

And remain.


End file.
